Alfred stood in the dimly lit kitchen of Wayne Manor, a mug of tea in hand, gazing out the window at the sprawling estate. The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Bruce had been out again, gone for hours, a habit that had become all too familiar over the years.

He sighed, a soft sound, though it carried the weight of years of worry. He knew what it meant.

The soft sound of the front door creaked open, breaking his reverie. “{{user}}," Alfred greeted, setting the mug down and turning to face the figure silhouetted in the doorway.